


Q & A

by endlesshorizons



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Kidfic, M/M, Parentlock, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshorizons/pseuds/endlesshorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte Watson is the daughter of an ex-secret agent and assassin, raised by an ex-army doctor and the world's only consulting detective. Of course she's going to have questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Q & A

Six-year-old Charlotte Watson is sitting on the armrests of the big leather armchair, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulders while he pages through a forensics journal. From time to time, she tries to sound out some of the big words – “dessication” and “formaldehyde” and “asphyxia” – with the older man correcting her occasionally.

This is how John finds them a few minutes later, walking into the living room with a cup of tea and a glass of milk. He sets the drinks on the coffee table, and Charlotte turns to him with a huge smile and twinkling blue eyes.

“Thanks, Papa.”

John leans down and ruffles her hair. “You’re welcome, Sherry,” he says before heading back into the kitchen for his own tea.

Charlotte clambers off the chair to take a sip of her milk, then something occurs to her.

“Sherlock?” she asks.

“Hm?”

“Why don’t you ever call me Sherry?”

Sherlock looks at her from the corner of his eyes. “I don’t like Sherry. Charlotte sounds so much more sophisticated.”

Charlotte frowns, trying to remember what “sophisticated” means.

“Besides,” he continues, “Charlotte makes you sound like a princess.”

She giggles. “Princess Charlotte!” she exclaims. “Am I Daddy’s little princess, then?”

“Of course.” Sherlock says, reaching up to pull her into his lap.

 

\--

 

_“It’s strange,” Sherlock murmured as he snuggled into the bed and flung an arm around John’s middle. It had been an exhausting day of crime-solving followed by chasing down a Charlotte who had just learned to run and was now taking every opportunity to do so. Finally, they had managed to settle her into the bedroom upstairs – officially Charlotte’s now, since roughly three weeks ago._

_“What is?” John asked, his face so close that Sherlock could feel the air he was expelling by speaking those words._

_“Sherry.”_

_“Oh?”_

_Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled the blankets further up. “It’s strange when you call her that. Or anyone calls her that, for that matter.”_

_“Is it?” John raised an amused eyebrow._

_“Yes,” Sherlock insisted. He reopened an eye, the one that was visible above the nest of blankets. “You know, that day on the tarmac, I wasn’t actually asking you to name your daughter after me.”_

_John laughed softly at that. “I know. I did it anyway.”_

 

\--

 

It isn’t until the age of ten that Charlotte thinks to question the structure of her family. When she comes downstairs after completing her schoolwork for the night, her fathers are sitting side by side on the sofa, one watching television and the other absorbed in something on his laptop.

“Sherlock? Papa?”

She hesitates a little when the two pairs of eyes shift to look at her. She bites her lips, then goes ahead and asks anyway. “Why don’t you ever talk about my mum?”

The silence that follows is only broken by a small sigh from John, who then drops his gaze to a spot on the floor to the left of her.

“Sherlock?” she asks, turning to the other man. “Daddy?” she persists, poking his knee. Charlotte has long since learned that when she wants restricted, “grown-up” information, Sherlock is the one to turn to.

But this time, Sherlock just turns to look at John.

“It was a long time ago,” John finally replies.

Charlotte pouts. She is unsatisfied with the answer, but lets it go. Maybe she can trick Mrs. Hudson, or beg Uncle Mycroft, to tell her.

 

\--

 

_John sat at the uncomfortable little chair beside Sherlock’s bed in the hospital – a single room, thanks to Mycroft. Sherlock had been awake for a few days now, but John was still splitting his time between the hospital and at home with the baby, his job at the surgery sitting on the backburner as it had been since what had happened._

_As soon as he was able, Sherlock had asked for his laptop, and now sat scrolling through the correspondences he had missed in the past few days. John, meanwhile, had a book open in his lap but was barely able to conceal the fact that he was mostly watching Sherlock, dressed in the standard hospital gown with his hair a mess and_ alive _. John realized that his hand was shaking, the tremor back in full swing. He had given up on trying to hide it, and besides, he thought that its existence was justified._

_“Why did you stop me?” John asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the room._

_Sherlock turned. “Why did I stop you from shooting?” Sherlock said, making the face that John had learnt to mean_ why-is-everyone-so-stupid _and_ do-I-have-to-explain-everything.

_“Yes. Why? I would have done it, you know.”_

_“I know,” Sherlock replied, “which is why I didn’t let you do it. You would’ve hated yourself for the rest of your life.”_

_“I wouldn’t,” John said with conviction. “Not by that point. I_ have _killed people before. Bad people.”_

_“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking John straight in the eye, “but you weren’t married to any of them.”_

 

\--

 

Charlotte is thirteen when she finally thinks to search through old newspaper articles. Like most children of famous people, it takes her a long time to fully comprehend that her parents are unusual – she’s always known it theoretically, sure, but really understanding the implications is another matter. After all, she sees them around the flat every day, padding along in old ratty dressing gowns, watching telly, and arguing about body parts and milk. It takes her a while to realize that there are people she has never met before who may actually be interested in their lives.

That weekend, after many hours on the Internet sifting through old archives, Charlotte arms herself with the evidence she has collected and confronts her father.

John is sitting at the kitchen table when she enters, poring over a copy of the newspaper.

“Papa,” she says, taking a seat across from him. John looks up. “My mother didn’t die in a car accident, did she?”

John’s eyes widen by a fraction, but before he can get out a word, Charlotte continues. “She wasn’t a very nice person, was she?”

“What makes you think that?” he asks, letting out a sigh and leaning back in his chair.

“I looked through the old news articles and your old blog. You and Sherlock have loved each other for a long time, haven’t you?”

John nods.

“My mother was more of an interruption, then, so maybe it’s a sensitive subject between you. But from your blog, it seems like he and my mother got along fairly well, so that can’t be the reason. And it also wouldn’t stop you from telling me about her. If she had simply died in an accident, you would’ve wanted me to know what she was like, told me stories about her, but you’ve never said anything and there isn’t a single photo of her in the flat. The records say she died in a car crash, but Uncle Mycroft is capable of much more impressive things than that, and he would only do so to hide something. So, she must have done something terrible, for you and Dad to never want to talk about her again.”

 

\--

 

_“John!” Mary’s voice said through the phone when he picked it up. “Are you and Sherlock done yet?”_

_“Yeah, we just wrapped up the case,” John replied._

_“Okay, remember how I said I was taking Sherry to see Mark and Tracy today?”_

_“Mmhmm.”_

_“Well, it turns out their daughter’s run into some problems. Got in trouble with the wrong crowd, and she’s afraid to get the police.”_

_“Do you want us to come, then?”_

_“Can you?”_

_“Yeah. What’s their address, again?”_

_Twenty minutes later, John and Sherlock arrived at the house in the suburbs. As soon as they stepped off the taxi, Sherlock took one look at the house and said, “Something’s wrong.” Sure enough, the door, when they reached it, was slightly open, just resting on its frames. John reached back to feel his gun, which was still tucked into his waistband from earlier in the day._

_Sherlock and John stepped into the house, completely dark except for a single softly-shining light coming from somewhere upstairs. They could just barely make out the shapes of the furniture from the streetlights shining in through the windows._

_“Sherlock! It’s_ so _nice to see you again!”_

_The familiar voice rang out, and all the blood in John’s body turned cold. Turning around, they saw the silhouette of Jim Moriarty, standing at the top of the stairs._

_“Where’s Charlotte and Mary?” John demanded._

_“Ah, John. It’s good to see you too, of course.” John could hear the mockery in the other man’s voice. “I would love to spend more time on pleasantries, but you see, I’ve got a schedule running for today.”_

_“Schedule?” Sherlock asked, with a tilt of his head._

_“Oh yes, a nice little party! Now John, if you would hand Sherlock your gun.”_

_“My gun?”_

_“Yes, your gun.” As he said this, two little dots came into focus, one on each of their foreheads. John felt a profound sense of déjà vu, and reluctantly did as he said._

_“Now, let’s play a game, shall we? There are four of you here today, but only three of you will be leaving. The fun part is, I’m going to let you choose which three!”_

_“Four of us?”_

_“Yes. Why don’t you come out, Mary dear?”_

_“Mary?” John gasped. The living room lamp suddenly turned on, revealing where she was standing with a gun pointed at Jim, still dressed in the jeans and blouse she had been wearing this morning._

_“Damn it, Jim,” Mary snarled. “You said I just had to lead them here. You’d deal with Sherlock and the rest of us will be left in peace. One last job, you said!”_

_“Oh Mary, Mary, Mary.” Jim laughed, shaking his head from side to side. “You’ve gotten boring in the past few years. I expected so much more of you.”_

_“That’s still only three of us,” Sherlock said from beside him. “Where’s Charlotte?”_

_“With me, of course.” He finally stepped into the light then. Lying against his chest, incongruous with the trademark impeccable suit, was Charlotte in a carrier strap, limp from a sedative but still breathing. John felt his entire body being swallowed in alternating waves of hot and cold. Without thinking, he lunged towards the stairs. Moriarty reached into his pocket, then, taking out his own handgun, playfully tossed it in the air before catching it again and pointing it at the baby’s head. “Now, now, I wouldn’t be hasty. Play the game, and if you three can’t choose, I don’t mind choosing for you.”_

_When John turned around in resignation, it was to see his wife and his best friend facing one another, barrels pointing at each other’s face._

_“John and the baby will be leaving, of course.” Sherlock said, voice sharp as a knife._

_“I agree,” Mary answered._

_“Don’t I get a say in this?” John interjected, furious._

_Neither turned to spare him a glance. They continued to stare at each other, eyes locked in a silent showdown like two lions ready to pounce. Then, to John’s horror, Sherlock let go of his gun, the banging noise of it hitting the floor sounded as he raised his arms in surrender._

_“Oh Sherlock, I’m so_ disappointed _!” Moriarty said then, coming down the staircase and circling Sherlock from one side to another. “Self-sacrifice, really? And for real this time – there’s no getting out of this one.” He shook his head sadly, as if genuinely saddened by the outcome. Finally, he sighed dramatically and stepped back. “Well, if you must. Get on with it, then.”_

_John saw Mary click off the safety of her gun, ready to pull the trigger. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he flew towards her without a thought, pushing her away from Sherlock. With a quick movement, he scooped the other gun from the floor and found himself pointing it at her._

_“Oh, this is getting interesting!” John could just barely hear Moriarty tittering in the background._

_John took a deep breath and felt it rattle on its way out of his chest, but he didn’t have to take any more time to think – he had already made his decision._

_“No! Stop!”_

_Things started to happen all at once. In the brief moment in which John had been distracted by Sherlock’s shout, Mary turned and fired at the taller man, barely having time to aim. He fell and John rushed at him, frantically tearing off his coat and shirt to get at the wound underneath. There, very close to an older scar, was another little hole with blood surging out, freed from the pressures of the enclosed blood vessels. John tried desperately to stem the flow, hands stained red with fresh blood._

_Meanwhile, Mary rounded on Moriarty. “Give her to me!” she screamed._

_Moriarty laughed. “Make me,” he said, thumb caressing his handgun._

_“I shot him! Now give her back!”_

_He only grinned at her outburst, making no move to shrug off the strap. Mary’s eyes moved to where the barrel of the gun was resting by Charlotte’s head, then upwards, back towards the top of the stairs. The two sniper dots reappeared, this time on either side of Moriarty’s head._

_“I know you can’t see where the rifles are aimed,” she said coldly, “but I’m sure you can guess. You’ve fucked over a lot of people over the past few years with your little obsession, Jim, haven’t you ever considered that some of them may want revenge?”_

_At this, Moriarty looked neither shocked nor afraid. Instead, his grin widened grotesquely, pulled from one side of his face to the other, and his eyes danced in the dim light. Mary, who was much too familiar with psychopaths, recognized the look and flung herself at Jim, pushing her way past the barrel of the gun and wrapping herself around Charlotte’s head._

_There was a flurry of movement, and three gunshots rang out._

_By the time that John and a barely conscious Sherlock had grasped what had occurred and police sirens were sounding in the background, two figures were lying motionless on the opposite end of the room. Finally, a muffled baby’s cry resounded in the house._

 

\--

 

John closes his eyes and releases the breath he has been holding. “You’re right,” he says simply.

“Are you ever going to tell me what she did?”

There is a long pause. “I will. Someday.” He finally answers.

Charlotte watches a spectrum of emotions play out on her father’s face, and nods. She turns to leave, but after a few steps, John calls her back.

“There is one thing I want you to know about your mother,” he says quietly.

“What’s that?”

“She loved you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Why is it always when I desperately need to do schoolwork that the plot bunnies sneak up on me and refuse to let go? Either way, I hope you liked the story that I really shouldn't have been writing.
> 
> Also, hopefully it wasn't too confusing, but Charlotte calls Sherlock both Sherlock and Dad/Daddy, the latter especially when she's feeling affectionate or wants something from him. Basically, in the first few years after Mary died, John & Sherlock still hadn't completely worked out their issues yet or figured things out, so they would've taught Charlotte to call Sherlock "Sherlock". But for her, he's always been the other parental figure and theirs is the only family she remembers, so she starts calling him "Dad" on her own.


End file.
